Being an original drama in one act.

SETTING: The press tent of a large outdoor pop music festival in the suburbs. Not far from here. Not long from now.

CAST IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:

RICHARDS, a music critic for a newspaper, about thirty

A WOMAN, perhaps thirty-five

A BALD MAN, maybe forty

MALITZ, Richards’s malnourished colleague, also about thirty

KLIMEK, a writer, somewhat older than thirty

LIGHTS UP on a tent on a dusty field wherein a makeshift office has been erected. A dozen laptop computers, many of them covered in logo stickers, sit unattended on folding tables, power cords dangling precariously. The tables are also littered with piles of small zip-up nylon portfolios and maps and pamphlets. There is no more free water ANYwhere in this tent, if you can believe that shit. A MAN seated at one of the tables rubs sunscreen on his head. Music wafts in from a beyond a hill, loud but indistinct.

MALITZ uses a PROTRACTOR to adjust the bill of his SILVER JEWS BASEBALL CAP to precisely the right skewed angle while RICHARDS stands animated in conversation with A WOMAN, gesturing frequently towards his white FEIYUE SNEAKERS.

RICHARDS: …so I bought like nine pairs! I’ll totally get you some next time I’m in New York.

Enter KLIMEK.

KLIMEK: Hail, Fellows! I just thought I would drop by to charge my phone up for a minute and also, while that is happening, perhaps to engage in some collegial banter with the both of youse.

RICHARDS (To MALITZ): Don’t talk to him, Dude — he’s the enemy! The enemy!

MALITZ: The enemy is everywhere!

KLIMEK: What is that, a Blue Öyster Cult song or something?

MALITZ: Titus Andronicus. Heard of ’em?

KLIMEK: I KNOW IT’S A FUCKING TITUS ANDRONICUS SONG, YOU GOOF!

END OF PLAY.